


Epinephrine

by hyperempathie



Category: South Park
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-03
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-04-24 13:58:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4922203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hyperempathie/pseuds/hyperempathie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pete Grey tries his hardest to to comprehend his relationship with his best friend as they contemplate ditching the band. Henrietta sprains her ankle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_And everything was made for you and me_  
_All of it was made for you and me_  
_'Cause it just belongs to you and me_  
_So let's take a ride and see what's mine_

_"The Passenger" - Siouxsie and the Banshees_

* * *

 

Pete Grey sat silently in his room, his phone glaring white ophthalmologist appointments at him as he slid his finger along the screen absentmindedly, scrolling past old messages as he awaited a new one. A forgotten cigarette burned in the ashtray on his desk, though he soon glanced up in acknowledgement and reached out to grab it, placing his phone down with a sigh as he took a drag. His messy room smelled of smoke and hairspray, two vices he had trouble letting go of, and he tipped his head back and stared at the ceiling.

It was late enough in the evening that he could expect Henrietta to send her obligatory ' _what are we doing tonight?_ ' text message, and that he could expect for Michael to decide for all of them. Michael had that air of decisiveness around him, or at the very least it seemed he did. He and Henrietta would then chime in with affirmations of their arrangement, and they all assumed Firkle agreed as well.

It was 9PM, however, and Pete's phone showed no signs of life.

The boy exhaled softly and reached for the cup of now-cold tea that had been sitting patiently on his desk, next to piles of textbooks and empty packs of cigarettes. He sipped it with shaky hands, trying to calm his nerves though he found himself growing anxious at the lack of a call or message. The silence seemed agonizing.

Pete Grey's phone vibrated to life at 10PM, indicating a text message. He would deny the chill that ran up his spine as he heard the sound and saw the screen light up. It was from Michael, a fact he found odd as Henrietta was often the bearer of good or bad news regarding their outings.

 _'Henrietta's spending the night at the hospital, she sprained her ankle at an IHOP parking lot. Let's drive somewhere,'_ the message read. He felt guilty at the relief he felt that his friends at least acknowledged their evening plans, regardless of the fact that one of them was unable to participate. He and Michael went on long car rides rather often, usually with Firkle it was the ride to Henrietta's house for band practice, though sometimes the two of them alone made a point of driving all the way to the outskirts of town and wasting time staring at the sky and chain smoking. The latter seemed like a good idea, and he wrote a quick confirmation.

' _Pick me up in half an hour_ ,' he wrote, certain it would not take him much longer than that to make himself look at least semi-decent. He stood up and stretched, his tired joints cracking with movement as he wondered if there was a chance he was actually thousands of years old, he was certain there was a breeze inside his ribcage.

The large mirror in his room stood in silent judgment, making him suddenly hyper-aware of himself and the way he stood, his hair, facial expression and the acne scars that made him want to tear his skin off. He frowned in defiance at his reflection, pushing his hair out of his eyes and fixing the eyeliner that had smeared throughout the day.

After spending a good portion of the half an hour he allowed himself backcombing his hair to adequate elegant messiness, he gave himself one final glance. He'd looked worse than he did in that moment, he was sure. The screen of his phone lit up again as he heard a car honking outside. Without looking at the message, Pete grabbed his phone and stuffed it in his front pocket before darting out the door into the sharp wind. Michael's car stood outside his house, a dusty thing the older boy had gotten for his birthday the year prior. He got in and was greeted by a cup being thrust into his hands.

"It's Starbucks," the taller boy elaborated before reaching a hand across to close the door on Pete's side, "I picked it up on the way, figured you might need some adrenaline-inducing poison," and he turned the key, the engine purring to life.

"Thanks," Pete managed, "it's really hot, I guess I'll have it when we get wherever we're going," he leaned back and added, "where are we going, anyway?"

"Wherever. Do you want some music?"

"Play _The Passenger_ ," he answered, looking out to the road, "it's topical or some shit," and he picked at his chipping nail polish, suddenly nervous about how alone they were, knowing no one else was going to join them. The strained relationship that stretched between them, oscillating between friendship and an odd display of infatuation, was heavy in the cramped space of the vehicle. Pete wondered how many drunken love confessions and awkward 'goodbye' hugs it would take for their courtship to evolve into something more coherent, though he was scared of defining what they were.

They drove through the town, caught in relationship limbo and uncertain where they would be by the end of it all, when the storm is over. Close, Pete hoped, his gaze switching from the road ahead to quickly scan over his companion's dark eyes and spindly fingers.

"We can go to my house after," Michael said, though he noticed Pete seemed unsure so he hastily added, "to rehearse. We can get drunk off of wine coolers and do bad covers."

"Yeah," the other boy found he was curling into himself slowly, trying his hardest not to seem too eager, "we could do that," though he knew the two of them had never practiced on their own. He wondered what the rest of their gloom quartet would think.

Pete silently took a sip from the cup in his hands, finding it had adequately cooled. Caffeine was always desired, and he felt a calm spread throughout his mind. Everything was alright because he had coffee. His attention turned to the night sky, the dust of stars across the dark blanket above them was comforting. Everything was alright.


	2. Chapter 2

_I want to be found, be craved like things we push away_   
_These patterns cut like every day_   
_I need you to reach, I need you to need me_

_"Ghost" - Voxtrot_

* * *

 

As they sped past street lights and houses and drove towards the outskirts of their town, Pete found himself wondering if his companion saw any significance in what they were doing. There was a warmth that blossomed inside his chest at the thought of spending the night together. Friends was a label he'd long since abandoned for Michael, unlucky infatuation seemed more fitting. The music in the background removed a lot of the pressure he was beginning to feel, Michael's breath was visible in the cold air and Pete's breath came in tiny gasps when he found himself staring.

Quickly, he shifted his attention back to the window, not allowing himself to indulge further in observing the wonder that sat beside him. If he looked too much it would be too obvious, he thought, but he wanted to look at him so terribly that he was certain his eyes would leap out from his skull and forever embed themselves onto Michael's person. He shook the obscene thought away. As they drove closer to Michael's house, Pete's mind floated in an ocean of anxieties ranging from a fear of saying something inappropriate to somehow offending his friend. Both were unacceptable.

Once they stopped by the taller boy's home and walked up the stairs and into his room, with no music to drown out the deathly silence, they sat beside one another in perpetual fear of saying a word.

"I feel like," Michael began, "there's an incredibly small line we're walking and I can't help but want to cross to the other side," he absentmindedly lit a cigarette as he spoke, allowing the smoke to obscure his face as he exhaled, "the side where it isn't weird that I'm perpetually attracted to you," he paused for a second, taking a quick drag, "though I already feel weird saying it."

Pete so desperately wanted nothing more than to erase all they stood for in an act of tenderness and abandon, though the best he could do was shakily dart his hand out to cover Michael's, whose muscles tensed at the contact before relaxing again.

Their fingers curled together as if their two hands would merge and their arms would become a bridge from one body to the other, their bloodstreams connecting into one like a system of rivers and creeks. Instead Michael squeezed his hand as if to confirm the interaction, and their cold fingertips pressed together reminded Pete of the way blind people would feel someone's face in order to recognize them.

He closed his eyes as his hand found the taller boy's cheek and he let it slide from his jawline onto his neck, trying to memorize the texture of the cold skin as if he would never see him again.

"I don't want it to be like that with us," Pete's voice felt foreign in his ears as he spoke, "freaking out over whether something is weird or not. I like being with you. I guess we're both weird," though he knew the determination he feigned was slowly leaving him as his hands grew more and more shaky. His fingers gently pressed against his companion's scalp before he brushed his fingers through Michael's curly hair.

"You look good," the taller boy replied as they moved closer together, their shadows slowly becoming one as their noses pressed against one another, mouths inches apart, "are you sure?" it was barely even a whisper, speaking would compromise the moment.

"No," though he pulled Michael closer and pressed their lips together for a mere moment before pulling away and doing it again, properly this time, "yes," and he brought them together once more, speaking between small, nervous kisses, "I don't know."

" _Godiche,_ " Michael whispered the term of endearment against his lips, putting out his cigarette and wrapping the free arm around Pete's torso, "me neither."

"Only if you want to, _si tu es d'accord_ ," he felt the other nod and wondered why it always felt as if there was something in between them, as if they could never be close enough.

In the back of his mind, Pete wondered if they would even rehearse that night. He hoped not, every cell in his body wanted to remain like this forever, in perpetual closeness as he inhaled the ash from Michael's lungs through his lips. The only sound was their lips waltzing against one another, his tongue on the roof of Michael's mouth, his teeth scraping against Michael's bottom lip, all nervous and shaky. His hands were sweaty when they touched his friend's skin, thin like paper.

Band practice would never be the same, he thought.


	3. Chapter 3

_You cry out in your sleep,_  
_All my failings exposed._  
_And there's a taste in my mouth,_  
_As desperation takes hold.  
_"Love Will Tear Us Apart" - Joy Division__

* * *

 

Their bodies pressed up one against the other, Pete couldn't help but feel much warmer than he had before, his ears ringing. All he could hear was his heartbeat and Michael's breathing, the two sounds merging into one, a symbiosis, though the mutual benefit was unsaid. He felt teeth scrape his bottom lip, experimentally at first and then more confidently. Michael gently bit and tugged at the flesh, making Pete release a gentle hum absentmindedly. His thoughts lay elsewhere.

"Peter," the taller boy exhaled, their mouths parting, lips red with reckless abandon and eyes wide, "I've never kissed anyone before," and Pete watched as Michael's gaze fell while he spoke. He'd never seen his older friend look so vulnerable.

"Me neither," though when Pete spoke, he had trouble finding his voice, buried deeply beneath the imprint of Michael's teeth on his skin, "are we crossing the line?" the question was more to himself. It hung in the air, a fixed point in the room, the perpetual question mark that lived everywhere the two set foot. The feeling of having breached a limit they'd set for themselves resonated, and Pete dug his hand into his pocket in search of something familiar.

Lucky Strike.

He fished out the pack of cigarettes and held it as if it were a lifeline, getting a cigarette out and offering the other one to Michael, whose thin, long fingers grabbed one while his other hand took a lighter out of his own pocket. He lit his cigarette while Pete put his own between his teeth, trying not to chew on the filter with anxiety, though he couldn't help it. The tall boy moved closer to him, pressing the ignited end of his cigarette against Pete's, who inhaled deeply as he stared.

It was as intimate as kissing, he thought, his chest feeling hotter than the cherry that brightly burned in the darkness. His nerves were acting up, he noticed.

"I feel like I always want to drag you away, somewhere where no one else can follow us. And then do things like this," Michael's voice was the only sound in the room, "away from people."

Perhaps his teenage hormones were just acting up, making him unable to think rationally, but Peter's arms found the other boy's neck and moved to hang loosely around it. Cold hands pressed into his sides in response. Their cigarettes burned silently.

"Fuck people," Pete said as Michael pressed a kiss beneath his eye, a feather-light touch on the bruised, sunken skin.

"Fuck people," his friend repeated. Their lips met again, hasty and anxious motions slowly shifting to a gentle rhythm. They parted quickly, though it felt like a small eternity, "I was serious about rehearsing, by the way."

Pete raised his eyebrows and glanced around the room. The closet door was open, where he knew Michael's guitar rested against the wall, next to a bass that was used at rehearsals when the shorter boy forgot his own at home. He bit his lip and turned his gaze back towards the other boy as he took a drag from his cigarette.

"Alright."

Pete lay on the floor, his bass resting on his stomach as he stared up at the ceiling and inhaled the heavy, smoke-filled air. Michael sat on his bed and lit another cigarette, leaving it between his teeth as he began playing again. The shorter boy didn't know how to read sheet music, nor was he very good with notes altogether, but he recognized the song within the first three strums. 

Love will tear us apart.

He allowed a soft smile to tug at his cheeks as his fingers found the thick strings of the bass. He heard Michael's voice, so quiet at first and then raising barely above a whisper, lyrics they'd both memorized long ago. Michael never had a problem singing in front of an audience, but when it was just the two of them, Peter inches away from him, his throat tightened in protest.

It felt strange playing without drums or keyboard, though Pete found much more comfort in being alone in the room with Michael. His eyes filled with tears at the excess smoke, though he blinked them away, allowing them to slowly run down his cheeks along with his eyeliner as he looked at the ceiling.


End file.
